


Dogs With Human Names

by transcryptidone



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Polar (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 3 AU, Vaginal Sex, Will Has a Vagina, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcryptidone/pseuds/transcryptidone
Summary: Fic inspired by Bee/@fl4m3princ3ss'tweet:"will finding out he’s pregnant while hannibal is in prison, will then meeting duncan and duncan helping him out in anyway he can""will would feel like such a burden but duncan is such a softie he’d just want to help him out and be there and maybe he’s fallen head over heels in love with will but shhh that’s besides the point"
Relationships: Will Graham/Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser
Comments: 76
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

Snow comes down in big flakes and the cold chills at his fingers and toes. His dogs mill around without much of a care, not even Buster who sometimes shivers ever so slightly but can’t be trusted with something like a sweater. His dogs tolerated the long trip from Virginia to Montana much better than Will had anticipated. They’ve been quieter and calmer since they’d put their former home behind them as if his dogs were in tune with Will’s melancholy.  
  
The logs lay as scattered around him as the dogs are. Bending over to pick up the next section of wood is more clumsy and awkward than he’s used to, but he manages. For Will, it has long been important to be self-sufficient. He is no stranger to living on his own in the middle of the woods and only the company of his dogs. Now though it’s more important than ever that he takes care of himself. He can’t let himself get too cold or too hungry. Some days, he still struggles to not let himself get too sad.  
  
He sets the log right side up and swings his ax to chop it in two. When he blinks his eyes closed, it’s all too easy to imagine the ax swinging too far and landing in the wrong place. It’s easy for him to see splashes of blood staining the snow and soaking through it. It’s easy for him to remember the feeling of blood spilling and draining from him as life starts to darken and blur in his eyes.  
  
He grips the ax harder to be sure of his grip and tries to be particularly mindful of the blade as he bends over to resituate the wood. The impatient, frustrated huff of his breath comes out as a cloud floating and fading in the air. The cloud gets another puff as Will pauses to rub his hand across where his belly is stretching and the line of his scar aches to keep up as he grows. The cold seems to make the scar tissue even more unforgiving than usual – a reminder it’s still healing even after all this time. It’s the same way he knows the scar at his forehead will be flushed brighter after he goes inside and takes off his hat.  
  
Will feels eyes on him. _He always feels eyes on him._ He’s started to believe Hannibal’s eyes drilled themselves into his skull as his bone saw had done. Hannibal carved himself too deeply into Will for him to ever fully be rid of him. Will feels him there in the back of his mind and sometimes he thinks he might still feel Hannibal’s touch on his skin. His muscles remember Hannibal’s movements as if they were Will’s own. When he cooks himself dinner, when he wraps a blanket around his shoulders, when he tucks into bed, when he slides a hand under the waistband of his boxers at night – these are the times when Will’s mind plays its tricks on him and he thinks it’s not himself he’s feeling.  
  
Will pushes his hat lower on his forehead and rubs his hand down his eyes and across his chilled, flushed cheeks. He tries to focus again on the simple, straight-forward task in front of him. As he looks at the wood piled around his feet and the growing ache in his back, he thinks the task might not be so simple or straight forward. When that might leave him feeling discouraged, he tries to remind himself that he does need to chop all of the wood yet. He just needs to chop enough before the sun goes down to burn for the rest of the evening and into the night.  
  
He manages to do so while there’s still as much light as Montana seems interested in providing. He picks up the hunks of wood and tucks them under his arms as he whistles for his dogs. He smiles when their tails wag happily and he tries not to trip on his feet as the dogs pace around him. They continue to hover as he prepares and dishes out their meals and he can’t help but smile again as they wolf down their food. His smile only grows further as his baby kicks in his belly to demand that he eats too.  
  
As much as this baby may have been terribly timed or have parentage that’s _complicated_ to say the least, he finds himself deeply, irrevocably attached. This is another child Hannibal has given him and this time Will is determined to make sure it’s not taken away – no more Lucy and the football.  
  
This baby was conceived with the knowledge that time couldn’t be reversed, but it could be suspended. Will relives that moment in his dreams and tonight is no different. He dreams of pushing aside a notebook filled with mathematic equations. He dreams of it falling to the floor and shattering like a teacup that won’t collect back up again. In the dream, he remembers how the pages were wrinkled and creased when he’d found the book pushed under the bed. It got packed in the last of his boxes before he left. It’s under his pillow now.  
  
In his dream, he remembers the way Hannibal’s hands reminded him he could feel something other than pain. He remembers how Hannibal made sure he knew he could move again and do so however he liked. Will didn’t need to lie in fear of what was to come. What he would feel wouldn’t be the brutal coolness of a scalpel. For once, they’d touched each other not with edges sharpened by lies or knives in their hands, but with fingers just as normal and natural as any others’. Clothing could be stripped away and pretense and pain and memory along with it. The reverberation of fabric dropping to the floor echoed loud and clear as lies of omission disappeared into outright honesty.  
  
The sounds of his dogs barking had announced that the sounds of tires would soon come after. They’d both known then that time could only be held captive for so long and Will had known the same to be true about Hannibal. There was only one way to end an otherwise never-ending hunt.  
  
The sounds of his dogs wake him from his dreams. They pace and pant with the want to go out. As he rubs the sleep from his eyes, he expects to see little white mounds where wood was left behind and expects to have to click his tongue at his dogs when they sniff and threaten to choose those exact places to pee. What he finds instead is a blanket of snow that is perfectly, flawlessly smooth, so much so that he almost wants to click his tongue so his dogs won’t disrupt it with their many footprints. It delays his recognition of the meaning behind what’s _off_.  
  
He grabs onto the railing to right himself and his heart gives another lurch when he sees wood – more than he even had in the first place – beautifully chopped and stacked.  
  
He rushes the dogs and corrals them back into the house as soon as he can. He hadn’t bothered to tie his shoes and they slip loose and wide on his feet. His heart lurches in his chest as he stumbles. He hastily undresses and dons new clothes. He doesn’t even pause to eat breakfast as much as his stomach and throat seem to claw with hunger. He only sets food on the floor for the dogs and rushes out to his car in shoes he still doesn’t take the time to tie.  
  
When he’s on the road, his thoughts can catch up with him. His mind can start to understand his body’s reaction. He knows his goosebumps don’t just come from the cold. Cold can’t fully explain how his hands shake either. His quick, panting breaths come from how his heart pounds despite how his blood feels like it’s pooling at his feet. When he can put his thoughts to these feelings, he worries for a moment that the sudden provision of a perfectly tidy pile of wood means Hannibal has come for him. He worries the next moment that that’s not what it means at all.  
  
By the time he pulls up in front of _Molly’s Gift & Supplies_, he’s pretty sure it wasn’t Hannibal. He wouldn’t do something so subtle as chop some wood. He’d be more likely to leave Will an artistic corpse just like Will had done for him. But _pretty sure_ isn’t the same thing as having the _truth_ , so he turns off the car and climbs out.  
  
The bell above the door chimes as he walks in as it always does and he winces as he always does. The jingle might be benign enough to most but clangs and clamors inside Will’s skull. He’s too accustomed to needing to go unnoticed. He has become somehow _spoiled_ by the kind of socializing that takes place with words barely said louder than a whisper and conversations that use silence as a well-honed tool. The world still seems too tenuous and delicate for something as garish and loud as those little bells.  
  
Will keeps his head down out of habit. He picks up a few odds and ends for show. He really didn’t come here to shop. He rarely comes here because he needs anything from the shelves, but he comes every day nonetheless.  
  
“Hi, Molly,” he says when he brings his usual items to the counter.  
  
She barely has to ring them up. Molly and Will are both well-practiced enough to know what the total will be. It’s the same total it’s been many times before. It’s the same total it was the first time he came here. Molly had taken one look at him and added ginger ale and crackers to his bags without even charging him extra.   
  
“Hi, hun,” Molly says as she looks at him from under the edge of her Midwest wheat-colored bangs. “Did you find everything you needed?”  
  
“I did,” he answers, even though what he’d been looking for was what is happening _now_. As much as he might have preferred to stay holed up and hidden away day in and day out forever, he’s made himself known to Molly for exactly this kind of moment.   
  
“Something on your mind, Will?” she asks as she places the boxes of easy-to-prepare food into a bag – food Hannibal would be horrified to know Will might intend to feed to their child.  
  
Will rubs at his forehead with the absurd hope that he might brush away that thought before it can take root further. “I was wondering—“ he says as he scrunches his brow. He closes his eyes and inhales a breath before he starts again. “Did you happen to deliver logs to my house?”  
  
“No, we didn’t deliver any logs and we only deliver what we get asked. Logs are expensive,” Molly answers. Her smile is teasing and she gives him a wink as she says, “It’s not like they grow on trees or anything.”  
  
Will laughs, as much genuine as it is an anxious reflex. “My woodpile got filled and I don’t know how,” he says and tries to make his tone less _suspicious_ and more _curious_ – and not the morbid and deadly kind. “I guess maybe it’s baby brain.”  
  
“I know how that is,” Molly agrees easily, _innocently_. “When I was pregnant with Wally, I forgot all sorts of things. Forgot a cake in the oven and nearly burned down the house.”  
  
Will hums and tries to smile. He can feel that the smile comes out too drawn and tight, but it’s the best he can do. There have been far too many times when he’s fallen asleep on the couch in front of the fire and woken up grateful that the flames stayed contained while he slept.  
  
“Maybe you’ve got yourself a magic woodpile,” Molly quips. “Golden goose would be better, but we don’t get to pick and choose what sort of supernatural events we get to witness.”  
  
Will thinks of all the things that he’s been a witness to – _unreal_ things and _surreal_ things, seemingly unnatural and supernatural. They were the things that haunted his dreams and blurred into his waking days. They were the phantoms and specters made by illness and darkness and cultivated by Hannibal’s careful pruning and tending. There were no magic woodpiles or golden eggs to be found there, just an undead man and monsters prowling around seemingly every corner.  
  
“Oh, hey, why don’t we ask your neighbor!” Molly declares as she looks up and over Will’s shoulder. She smiles big and wide just as she does with Will and, with all the simple, light-heartedness of the little bells by the door, asks, “Did you happen to see anything peculiar out by your place? Perhaps some sort of supernatural event of someone dumping a truckload of logs?”  
  
A deep, rumbling voice cascades over Will’s shoulder and blankets him with a heavy weight that comforts as it crushes: “No.”  
  
“Will rents up where you are. You can probably see his cabin from your place across the lake,” Molly continues. “Maybe not, I don’t know. Seems his woodpile got filled up as if by magic!”  
  
Will turns to put a face to the voice and the title of _neighbor_. The face he sees seems to be a cruel trick at first. That someone could look so similar to the person he’s running from the thought of and at the same time so _different_ makes Will feel like he might be losing his mind again. He wonders if he can be gaslit by his own brain. If anyone’s mind could do it – _would_ do it – it’s his. To see a face so much like the one he might always want to run towards and find it in the place he ran away to is the sweetest, harshest sort of punishment beyond even his own imagination.  
  
His belly feels particularly heavy and the scar across it feels particularly sharp and constricted. The eyes that look back at him are much sadder and more sunken than the ones he remembers but Will can feel how there’s nothing they don’t see – _just like his_. The feeling that had him fleeing his home this morning comes back to raise the hairs on his neck and steal the air from his lungs.   
  
He nearly jumps out of his skin as the bells clang and the door slams when it’s pushed too far. The instinctual, panic-stricken movement of his hands jerks towards his belly, and a display rack of keychains gets caught in the crossfire and goes crashing to the floor. Will winces and crouches as quickly as he can, but he’s not fast enough to miss how his _neighbor’s_ gaze lingers on his middle.   
  
“Shit!” Will snaps. His hands are not nearly as steady as they should be or as they used to be. They hardly seem like the same hands that killed Randall Tier or pieced apart his body. These seem like the hands that had to shoot Hobbs ten times and still left him with enough life to haunt him. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Let it be. Let it be,” Molly says as she tsks her tongue and moves to come around to Will’s side of the counter. She puts a hand on his shoulder and crouches down next to him much more easily and gracefully than he had. She takes what he has in his hands and reassures him, “I’ll take care of it, Will. Don’t you worry yourself.”  
  
Even though it would make things easier, he doesn’t lean on her as he stands. He feels something deep inside that wants him to be able to get back to his feet without leaning on anything for support. He suppresses the grunt as he gets to his feet. He similarly stifles the groan that rises when the feeling of being watched that’s always there only heightens further the longer his _neighbor_ is there to see him.  
  
Will shoves his hand in his pocket and fumbles to find his wallet, then open it. He pulls out a couple of bills and drops them on the counter before taking hold of the plastic bags near enough to the handles. He tries to keep his wits about him and his feet underneath him as he turns away, but the bells give another damning jingle when he yanks the door open.  
  
As the door swings closed again, Will hears Molly’s voice exclaim: “Well, well, well, look who’s having himself a birthday!” She says it just like that, as if everything is normal, as if people have birthdays without associated proclamations of life and death, as if life comes just as naturally as death does.  
  
Will allows himself one last look once he’s in the safety of his car and the doors have been locked. He tries not to think about how easily a car window can be shattered, how easily he could be pulled through it, and how exactly he knows these things. Instead, he looks back at the man who is at once so familiar and unfamiliar. That he’s still being watched doesn’t come as a surprise. What surprises him is the shred of comfort he finds in being able to expect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to start a new WIP until I finished my current two and I was going to write something related to The Path next, but here we are ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This chapter was pretty short and exposition-filled but I wanted to set everything up for the next chapter to be able to start off in a particular way. I hope you liked it anyhow :)
> 
> (Also, those of you who have read the Nursery at the Top of the House series will notice that I have some strange affection for making Molly be the lady who works at the store? Don't know why? I guess I just like it.)


	2. Chapter 2

Will watches him cross the street. He still doesn’t know his name. He only knows him as his _neighbor_ , but he’s seen him doing things around town. Just now he pays another visit to the movie box in the alley. He’s still wearing his glasses as he steps away from the alcove. Will has seen them before and has watched him put them on and take them off.  
  
He tells himself he does this to fend off the worry that scratches at the back of his mind. It helps that it’s partly the truth. He’s been able to see all the ways his neighbor is different from Hannibal – ways that couldn’t be simply a _good act_. He tries to remind himself that Hannibal’s new self when he ran away wasn’t really that much different from who he was in Baltimore – sophisticated and knowledgeable with expensive taste. That hardly sounds like the same person as his neighbor with his singular, dark outfit and perpetual stubble.  
  
When his neighbor looks up and they find themselves looking at each other, Will quickly blinks away in a resurfaced old habit. He’d learned not to blink or to flinch under Hannibal’s _care_. But it seems that when his head was nearly sawed open and his face was almost no longer his own, it brought him back to when his brain was on fire and when he thought he might have let murderers take over his mind so much that they might inhabit his body too.  
  
Will also tries to use the memory of who he _could be_ to catch himself and blink back again. He then pushes himself a little further and even gives a wave. The wave he gets in return feels like a success and a reward even though it’s just a small little thing. His neighbor pauses and tucks the DVD case into the pocket of his sturdy winter coat. Will is glad that he hasn’t looked away no matter how the lingering impulse might prickle at him. If he’d looked away, he might not have gotten to see how his neighbor takes a step forward.  
  
Each step seems heavy with meaning and intention, the soles of his neighbor’s feet rooting themselves into the concrete and tearing those roots out again over and over. Steady, solid, sure. Each step brings his neighbor one step closer and Will stays exactly where he is and lets him. He waits and he watches until his neighbor looms over him in his seat.   
  
“Mind if I sit?” his neighbor asks. His voice is just as deeply resonant as Will remembers. It feels just as much like a warm, weighted blanket that covers Will where the window lets in a chill.  
  
“Go ahead,” Will answers. He only had one empty plate and a glass of water in front of him, but he pulls them closer to him to make even more space across the table.  
  
His neighbor smoothly takes his seat. The way he folds his hands looks how Will remembers from a fancy office full of books and whispers from many hushed conversations. But then his neighbor is curling in and hunching his shoulders in a way Hannibal’s perfect posture would never allow.  
  
“My name is Will,” he says, because that’s what he guesses he’s supposed to do when meeting someone new.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Right,” he says as he ducks his head. He looks down at his empty plate and wishes he’d left himself some food to fiddle with. _Bad table manners._  
  
Will’s thoughts are prevented from going any further as his neighbor states: “Duncan.”  
  
“Duncan,” Will repeats, feeling how his mouth shapes out the syllables. He hears it said in his own voice. He licks his lips and smiles. “It’s funny we’re neighbors.”  
  
“Yes,” Duncan remarks. “That is funny.”  
  
The waitress comes by to take Duncan’s order, offering him a winter coffee and offering Will more water. Duncan asks for oatmeal – _so plain_ – and Will asks for the same. She scribbles down their orders in her notepad before she goes and she leaves silence behind her.  
  
“You live in the house with the big porch,” Duncan states.  
  
“Yeah,” Will agrees. That’s not how he would have described it, but it’s true. What’s always stood out to him is the vantage point his house gave him when he looked out the window. It gave him the impression that he might be able to see what’s coming.  
  
“I live in the gray cabin, just across the lake.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
If Molly gave Duncan Will’s name, what she gave to Will was the ability to know who made that house across the way light up like a boat on a lake the way Will used to imagine his little house in Virginia shining out in the night.  
  
“I like it here,” Will admits as he wrinkles his brow and looks out the window.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
“It’s peaceful,” Will continues as he takes in the leisurely stroll of the spars walkers-by. There’s no hustle and bustle. He’s never heard a siren or seen the flashing lights of police cars or ambulances. It gives the impression that those things don’t happen here – no serial murderers holding dinner parties, no one very nearly bleeding out on the kitchen floor. “I’m hoping it makes _me_ peaceful.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
A tray clatters against the tabletop and Will’s hands jerk before he’s even fully registered the sound or the sight. His own gasp echoes louder in his ears as cold water splashes against his hands and ice clatters as it cascades across the table.   
  
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes as he watches the water pool and creep closer and closer to Duncan’s still-clasped hands. He throws the napkin in his lap onto the table but it’s no match for the spill. The flimsy paper is soaked through and drowned in no time.  
  
“It’s totally fine,” the waitress reassures him as she pulls the dishrag from the waistband of her apron and tosses it on top of his napkin.   
  
But Will’s hands still shake as he tries to get the dishrag to accomplish what his napkin couldn’t. To spill like that is _rude_. It’s graceless, _inelegant_.  
  
“It’s okay,” the waitress says, shooing his hands away as she wipes the table down with the practice and ease he doesn’t possess. “It’s fine.”  
  
“Okay,” Will says. He sighs and rubs his eyes when the waitress walks away. He’s not brave enough this time to see how Duncan’s eyes look at him and see him. His jaw clenches as he shudders out another, “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Duncan repeats, short and to the point.  
  
“Yeah,” Will says with a laugh at his own expense. “So I’ve been told.”  
  
“I don’t say things I don’t mean to,” Duncan states.  
  
The laugh Will gives then comes at no one’s expense. “ _That_ I can believe,” Will agrees. “I guess I’ve come to expect Midwest nice and chitchat.”  
  
The grunt Duncan gives might be a stifled scoff. It shakes through his chest with the same subtlety as he shakes his head. Duncan’s expression is exactly as it had been before, as it has been whenever Will has seen him. It should make Will nervous to be around someone so unreadable, but the slowing of his heart to its normal rhythm would suggest otherwise.  
  
“You’re not from around here either,” Will observes.  
  
“No,” Duncan says as he lifts his coffee to take a sip. “I moved when I retired.”  
  
“Not many people would choose to retire to Montana,” Will says as he raises a brow. He tries to imagine Duncan on a sandy beach, by the pool, or out on a golf course and he licks his lips to hide away his smile.  
  
“No,” Duncan says, somehow managing to make _no_ sound like an agreement. His eyes look at Will over the lip of his mug as he lowers it. “Not many people.”  
  
“What was your job?” Will asks as he takes his own sip. He’s left having to imagine that what he drinks is bitter enough to make him clench his teeth.  
  
“I was in the funeral business.”  
  
Will hums and scrunches his brows. “Where?”  
  
“Different places,” Duncan states. “Mostly overseas.”  
  
“A traveling funeral business,” Will observes. He feels his attention peak in the sort of way Jack Crawford always enjoyed most. It’s almost a comfort now the way it was almost a comfort then. Similarly, it simultaneously gives him some discomfort. “You might find it funny that I know a thing or two about that.”  
  
Duncan laughs – actually _laughs_. It’s so gruff and rumbles so deeply that it could sound like he has a cough except for how Will can _see_ him smile with it. “That is funny.”  
  
They both lapse into silence and Will finds it _very easy_ to imagine that neither he nor Duncan knows much about _small talk_. He finds it easy to believe neither of them were afforded the kind of comfortable simplicity that might be associated with such a thing.  
  
“I heard it was your birthday,” Will tries.   
  
“It was.”  
  
“What did you get from Molly’s?” he asks and winces when it might seem something like asking Elise Nichols’ parents about the cat – possibly nosey, definitely strange.  
  
“I bought cake mix,” Duncan tells him. His gaze as he pauses is heavy, as it always seems to be, but somehow feels _warmer_. “I never made it.”  
  
“That’s a shame,” Will says as he feels warmed too. It pools in his belly and travels his veins as if it really was winter coffee he was drinking. “You know, if you wanted to share, my house _is_ right across the lake.”  
  
“You could come over while I make it,” Duncan suggests. “Save me the trip.”  
  
Will smiles as he ducks his head. “I guess I could.”  
  
They finish their matching oatmeal and Will stops himself from apologizing again to the waitress when he pays his bill – but he _does_ leave a particularly nice tip. Will and Duncan drove separately, so they leave separately. Will has to stop at home to let his dogs out anyway. He doesn’t let the dogs linger too much. They’d spend all night sniffing every flake of snow if he let them. He doesn’t have time for that.  
  
By the time he makes it back to the other side of the lake and through his neighbor’s front door, Duncan smells more like cigarette smoke and he has not only already put the cake in the oven but also already cleaned every dish he can. A mixing bowl and spatula sit drying in a dish rack. They’re cheap. There’s nothing fancy or complicated. Even though they’re probably brand new and barely used, they already look more worn out than anything in Hannibal’s pristine kitchen.  
  
Duncan adorns his home like he does his body – which is to say simple, efficient, and dark. Only the _Happy Birthday_ banner above the fireplace has much in the way of bright color. There’s also a red balloon left abandoned to shrink and deflate on the floor. Will crouches to pick it up and feels how it gives in between his fingers.  
  
“You didn’t say what brought you to Montana,” Duncan states while they hover nearby the oven and wait.   
  
“You’re right,” Will says. “I didn’t.”  
  
“You don’t have to.”  
  
“I guess I was retiring from my funeral business too,” Will says with a sigh and he presses his fingers a little deeper against the air trapped within the confines of the balloon – no hope for a quick escape, only a slow, drawn-out one. “Though it doesn’t always feel like I’ve managed to actually quit.”  
  
“Why did you quit?”  
  
Will looks down at his hands and notices how the balloon is held just a little in front of his belly. As he blinks, it might seem to blur and he might feel as though he were looking at his future. His belly will only get bigger and rounder and heavier. Some days he still feels like he can’t quite believe it and he still has a good while to go.  
  
“It was getting too dangerous,” he admits.  
  
Duncan hums. “I’ve never seen you with a partner.”  
  
“You can ask me,” Will says. “About him.”  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
“The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”  
  
As soon as the words are out of his mouth and hanging in amongst the silence they’ve held together, Will can hear them differently. He thinks he might hear the words how a stranger would. He hears how bizarre and impossible it sounds in the absence of every gritty detail from his and Hannibal’s whole sordid saga.  
  
Duncan laughs – even stronger and louder this time than he had in the diner – and Will finds he can do nothing else but laugh too. Such a _ridiculous_ situation. His belly jumps with the ins and outs of his laughter and the growing movements of his growing baby. Their little limbs aren’t strong enough yet to kick the air from his lungs. For now, the baby just moves to remind him that they’re there.  
  
“That’s where he will be for the rest of our lives,” Will continues. He drops the balloon and touches a hand to feel the reality of his belly. He tries not to feel a stab of sadness at the thought of the baby never knowing their other parent. “He’s not my partner. I don’t know what we were, but we’re not any of it anymore. He’s the funeral business I’m retiring from.”  
  
“Not many people move on their own to Montana when expecting a baby,” Duncan observes.  
  
“No,” Will says. He feels this time how it _is_ an agreement. “Not many people.”  
  
The process of getting the cake out of the pan, onto a plate, and frosted turns out to be more difficult than either of them had anticipated. Even so, Will likes the cake even more for how messy, crumbly, and sort of _ugly_ it ends up being. There are no extraneous decorative elements. There’s no grand story to tell about it as they dish pieces out onto plates. Duncan doesn’t set a table. They just eat on the couch in front of the fire. They eat in silence without philosophical conversations with double meanings. When they’re done, the plates are set aside on whatever available surface and they slump back against the couch to let the fire flicker, casting warmth and warm light against their skin.  
  
“Happy Birthday,” Will says as he looks away from the banner above the fireplace. They hadn’t thought to light any candles for Duncan to blow out but the glow of the fire gives Will some sense of nostalgia for the moment when a wish is made and individual, little flames are all blown out at once.  
  
Duncan doesn’t say anything, but Will knows he’s been heard and knows he’s not going without acknowledgment. Even as lax as Duncan may be on the couch, his quiet strength is just as present as ever. It’s a presence without intrusion, but not lacking in potential.  
  
Will realizes then that has done so much _looking_ but looking lacks the clear tangibility of touch. Will’s _seen_ many things that could never be touched and were also, as it turns out, _not real_. He’d followed them down hallways and shot them in the cold of dead winter, but maybe if he’d tried to touch them, he’d known they weren’t there.  
  
Will may never know who moved first. He will only know that they went from being still and separate to pressed close and in motion. He will know he went from sitting surrounded by open air to being held within arms that he has no doubt could crush and squash – _probably_ _have_ – but in this moment, won’t. Will grips his hands to Duncan’s shoulders, drags them along the knit of his sweater to where it wraps high up on his neck. He feels hair dark, gray, and free from gel under his fingers and the prickle of facial hair against his lips. He moans with how the _realness_ makes his world seem to tilt and right itself again. The sturdy hold of Duncan’s hands kept him from tipping over.  
  
He wants to gain leverage. He wants to lift himself into Duncan’s lap or push him back onto the couch. He wants to loom above and have the muscle and power of Duncan’s body between his knees. But the twist of his hips that might have come naturally some other time now feels weighted down and clumsy. The heavy roundness that has settled in and grown between his hips reminds him that he can no longer simply come and go as he pleases.  
  
And so Will lets the momentum of his body pull him back down into the couch. He doesn’t fight it as he sinks in as deeply as the cushion will allow. “I’m sorry,” he says as he rubs a hand at the back of his neck and grabs a handful of his hair just to have something to hold onto.  
  
“It’s fine,” Duncan states. “Believe me.”  
  
Will releases his hair from the punishing grip of his hand and instead reaches far enough to at least take Duncan’s hand. “Okay.”  
  
Duncan’s hand squeezes back and they look back to the fire. When the flames falter and threaten to die out, Duncan gets up to add a bit more wood. He’s as efficient as always, but Will still finds time to miss the hold of his hand. Duncan seems to take no pleasure in making Will experience too much absence or too much longing. When he returns to the couch, Duncan settles into a seat closer to him. Will is lulled to sleep by how cold seems to drain him and warmth only encourages him to tuck in. He’s too half-asleep to be sure but he might fall asleep with his cheek pressed to Duncan’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank you to fl4m3princ3ss for the original prompt, the ongoing inspiration, and for being willing to beta. I've never had anyone do anything like beta-ing for me before, so this is something fun and new!
> 
> As always, feel free to join me on Twitter. I'm debating doing some polls and stuff over there to help me make some decisions about my various fics. So if you'd like to have some input, come take a look!


	3. Chapter 3

If his last experience with Hannibal made him regress to his encephalitis days, his last experience with Duncan might make him regress to high school. As they walk down the sidewalk, it makes Will think of dates had in his teenage years when walking up and down the strip mall was the only thing to do in such a small town. His hand itches for another hand to hold now just as it did then and he carries with him unfortunately similar internal questions — _does he like me? Am I supposed to make the first move?_  
  
Will has never been particularly good at this kind of stuff. It’s how he ended up thinking searching for a wounded animal might be considered a date and kissed Alana in front of the wall he’d torn apart in search of a noise that was never really there.  
  
He watches Duncan as he returns a movie at the rental box and gets another new one. They’ve already milled around the Antique Mall even though neither of them knew much to say about the antiques. Will didn’t have too many crime scenes that required him to know about lamps and end tables and he’s guessing Duncan’s _funeral business_ would hardly make such information any more meaningful.  
  
Since Duncan got to run his errand, Will has every justification to run his. As they walk up to the Triple Oak Pet Emporium, a little bark sounds out in the cold silence. Will looks towards the sound on instinct and sees a little, tan French bulldog sitting in a blue laundry basket with a cardboard sign affixed to the front that reads: ADOPT ME.  
  
On a stool nearby sits a woman scrolling on her phone. “Hey,” she greets when she sees them. The dog tilts his head and makes a noise sounding like something curious as he peers up from the basket at Duncan. “He likes you, man,” she remarks as her hands and her phone drop to her lap for the moment.  
  
“What’s his name?” Duncan asks and Will finds himself a touch surprised to hear it.  
  
“He doesn’t have one,” she answers.  
  
“I like dogs with human names,” Duncan states plainly and it takes Will’s overabundance of self-awareness to catch himself before he smiles too much.  
  
“Like what?” she asks.  
  
Duncan tilts his head and turns his body as he seems to study the little dog. “Like ‘Rusty.’”  
  
“I don’t know anyone human named Rusty,” she says skeptically and with a poorly stifled laugh. “Isn’t that a dog’s name?”  
  
“No, it’s human,” Duncan insists as he reaches down to let the dog have a sniff at his fingers. When Duncan turns his wrist to scratch behind the dog’s ear and back to his scruff, the dog makes little grunting noises.  
  
“I like it,” Will says.  
  
All his experience with dogs over the years has helped him to notice the different ways a person can interact with them. There are people like Alana who enjoy the company of dogs with a smile on their face. There’s Jack, who will acknowledge them with a pet or two but without much more enthusiasm than that.  
  
Will knows he himself is usually the type to crouch down and pet with both hands. He might have today if he wasn’t afraid he might get stuck – _or worse_ fall over. The sidewalk is covered in gravel and salt, but he still doesn’t trust that means all the ice has been taken care of. That’s what Will _didn’t_ think about when he moved to Montana in the winter while carrying a baby – that every imagined slip on the ice came paired with _two lives_ flashing before his eyes.  
  
Anyhow, Duncan’s reaction to the dog has been much more subdued than Will’s would be if he were able, but it’s _how_ Duncan’s reaction suits him that makes it all the more remarkable.  
  
“Okay, whatever you say, man,” the woman says like she’s skeptical but doesn’t care enough to argue. She looks closer at Duncan and, like Will, she can clearly see that this dog is as good as sold. “He’s only fifty bucks.”  
  
“I don’t need a dog,” Duncan states.  
  
Will shakes his head as he shifts on his feet. “You have to take him home or I will,” he says. “And I have too many already.”  
  
Duncan hums as he looks at Will, then down at the dog, and back at Will again. “Okay,” Duncan agrees as he gives a single nod.  
  
Once that’s decided, they leave Rusty outside for just a few moments longer so that they can get everything Duncan will need for him and Will can get the dog food he actually came here for. Duncan hesitates and Will sees how his eyes scan across the many vibrantly colored aisles designed to capture the attention of the owners and captivate their need to spoil their pets.  
  
“I’ve never had a dog,” Duncan admits.  
  
“Like I said, I have plenty,” Will says as he picks up a basket with one hand and, before he can think too hard about it, takes Duncan’s hand with the other. The way Duncan’s head turns slowly and his eyes tip down towards him could be skeptical or judgmental on someone else, but on Duncan, it looks probably as openly curious as he’s willing to express. “You can come over and I can at least show you how I take care of my dogs. You’ll see it’s pretty easy.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
“You’ll maybe want a leash at first, though maybe not since he doesn’t seem like he has any interest in bolting,” Will says as he leads Duncan down the first aisle. “My dogs aren’t on leashes when they go out, but one of them sometimes makes a break for it and that’s always when I wish I’d put him on a leash.”  
  
Will recalls the memory of Buster sprinting into the forest late at night. He remembers the _yelp_ and the blood on the little dog’s fur when Will managed to catch up with him. He scrunches his eyes closed and tries to stop his thoughts before they can go much further. He doesn’t know what part of that memory would be the most damning. He doesn’t want to remember it enough to be able to compare and decide.  
  
When he opens his eyes again, Duncan is reaching for a leash – a black one, _of course_ – and Will lifts up the basket in his hand to let Duncan drop it in. He guides Duncan around from aisle to aisle to help him sort what’s needed from what’s just something extra pet companies would like him to buy. They get treats, some toys, and a bed before Will helps him wade through the sheer magnitude of dog food options.  
  
“I used to make my dogs’ food,” Will tells him. “I went through this whole fancy process: ground the meat, picked the rosemary, made the bone broth, cracked eggs, and even baked the eggshells.”  
  
“You don’t now,” Duncan observes. He watches Will as Will scans the bags of food that line the wall and looks down at the basket in his hand – _that’s not going to work_.  
  
“For a while, I couldn’t put that same amount of effort in and they went back to kibble,” Will explains, carefully skipping over the _why_. He huffs a sardonic laugh when he looks at Duncan and says, “The only difference now is the dogs try to beg whenever I make myself dinner.”  
  
Duncan points to the bag Will has been staring at as he’s tried to figure out the logistics. It’s a big bag, but when Will nods, Duncan manages to bend and lift it to carry under his arm. He manages to do all of this without loosening his grip on Will’s hand.  
  
“Thank you,” Will murmurs and he thinks if what he’s feeling is the start of a blush, that would be just _too much_ like _high school_. “I can give you some of that food to take if you want. Save you having to buy a whole bag and waste it if he doesn’t like it.”  
  
Duncan hums and nods. As they make their way to the register, Duncan also adds a bone as big as Rusty and a book called _Caring For Your New Dog_. Will doesn’t say anything, just smiles. The cashier rings up all their items and then disappears to the back to fetch one box to carry their purchases and another to carry Rusty in.  
  
Once everything is set, they load everything into their separate cars and set off on their way to Will’s home. As he guides the way, Duncan follows behind him. Will can see clouds of cigarette smoke drifting out of Duncan’s window whenever he looks in his rearview mirror at red lights. He watches Duncan take another drag of his cigarette and doesn’t notice at first when he lingers for a moment too long after the light turns. At home, Will parks his truck where he always does. Duncan’s truck rumbles and then goes quiet not unlike Duncan himself and the smell of cigarettes clings to him as he opens the door and climbs out.   
  
“Why don’t I let the dogs out and they can go about their business and then we’ll see about an introduction?” Will suggests.  
  
“If you think that’s best.”  
  
Will looks over at Rusty, who calmly sits in his box. “I don’t want him getting overwhelmed.”  
  
Duncan hums and nods and the sound is quieter than the impatient little barks that come from the other side of the front door as Will walks up to it. As his dogs pour out onto the front porch, he has to grip the doorjamb so as to not get caught in the riptide. Their barks get a little less impatient and a little rowdier as they spot a stranger by their home.  
  
Will whistles to remind them to behave. All of their ears twitch and some of them look back at him just to check. They quiet until they simply circle around Duncan’s feet. Duncan holds Rusty in his box in his arms and both he and his dog look down at Will’s pack with some degree of curiosity and some degree of passivity.   
  
“We have here Max, Buster, Harley, Ellie, Zoe, and Winston,” Will lists off and he points to each dog as he makes their introduction. They act as if as soon as they’ve been introduced, they’ve also been dismissed of their greeting duties and they walk around the snow and pack the snow down further under their paws as they start off by inspecting the same spots they always do.  
  
“Human names,” Duncan observes.  
  
“Yeah, I guess they are,” Will agrees. He can’t say it was intentional. He didn’t even name half of them. Many of them had come to him with names he never bothered to change, didn’t see a reason to.  
  
“I like it,” Duncan states.  
  
Will ducks his head as he laughs again. He touches his hand to Duncan’s upper arm. When he looks back up towards him, snow starts to fall again to glisten in Duncan’s hair and along the shoulders of his coat. He shifts his hand to Duncan’s shoulder and feels the cool droplets against his fingers. “Come on inside.”  
  
Will grabs the bag of food from the car and carries it with just a little less ease as Duncan carries Rusty. In his defense, the belly has presented more of an obstacle than Will expected it would. Some of the dogs follow curiously behind him as they approach the front door – perhaps they’re excited to see Will; maybe they’re curious about Duncan and Rusty; maybe they’re just hungry; and could be all three. Will whistles to gather the rest of them and sets the bag down by the front door when he closes it.   
  
“Hi, everyone,” Will greets as he gives each of his dogs some attention. He does actually crouch to the floor this time. Buster leaves little wet footprints on the knees of his pants and Zoe drips a couple drops of excited drool from how her mouth doesn’t close quite right. “Did you miss me?”  
  
While Will showers his dogs with attention, it’s possible Duncan hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s remained there with his dog in his arms like he isn’t sure what he should do to make himself comfortable.  
  
“You can put him down if you want,” Will assures him.  
  
Duncan nods and bends his knees to lower himself and Rusty to the floor in one smooth motion. Will keeps an eye on his dogs to make sure they are behaving well enough. They turn their heads curiously and perk up their ears and sniff their noses to investigate the new creatures in their house.  
  
“Everybody, this is Rusty,” Will introduces with a smile as he pets behind Max’s ear. When it twitches against his fingers, Will imagines it might come just a little bit from being annoyed by the bother. “You have to play nice.”  
  
Rusty seems uncertain about leaving the safety of his box at first. He stays sitting in there long enough for Ellie and Zoe to get bored with the whole thing and wander off. Will has to tsk his tongue at Buster once or twice for barking and Max for looking like he might get too eager. It’s Winston, of course, who approaches slowly and gives a skeptical Rusty an appropriately careful sniff. Once that gesture of friendship has been successfully extended and received, Rusty hops out of his box to pad around the floor.  
  
Will smiles and laughs quietly, then laughs harder and louder when he sees Duncan laughing too. He watches how Duncan’s eyes follow Rusty as he makes his first endeavor in the great adventure that is the living room and Will sees how Duncan’s downturned mustache fights against his smile.   
  
“Do you want something to drink?” Will offers. “I’m afraid I don’t have winter coffee or really either component. No use buying what I’m not allowed.”  
  
“Anything you have is fine.”  
  
Will unties his boots while he’s still kneeling on the floor, he pulls off his hat as he stands, and slips his arms from his jacket to hang it by the door. The chill of his house without a fire going has him deciding on some hot chocolate. He’s got plenty of it in his cabinets. Steam rises from the mugs when he brings them over to Duncan. They both stand in silence as they sip and stare out the window. While the liquid in their cup lessens and chills, snow falls heavier and faster in front of their eyes.  
  
“That has the makings to be quite a storm,” Will observes once he’s run out of chocolate to sip at.  
  
Duncan hums and rasps, “I’ve driven through worse.“  
  
Will gives his own hum and raises a brow. “There’s no need to go home unless you’re _trying_ to avoid me.”  
  
“No,” Duncan says and his mustache tilts towards a smile alongside his lips.  
  
Will licks his lips and tastes the lasting sugar on his tongue. “I would like you to kiss me,” he says as he smirks. “Just thought you should know.”  
  
Without another word, Duncan leans forward and Will meets him halfway. The kiss starts off with necks turned and craned to the side but their bodies turn and align more and more with each press of their lips. Their mugs are set aside and abandoned and hands find new purpose feeling the layers left of their clothes – _too many_ , even if only just _one_.  
  
The knit of Duncan’s sweater seems solid and enduring, something reliable with the potential for warmth that stands the test of time. Meanwhile, Will’s sweater has started to feel _stuffy_ as his skin dampens with how he flushes. Duncan’s thumb slips under the hem of Will’s sweater first and, when Will’s groan is pressed into their next kiss, Duncan understands it as the invitation it is.  
  
Will's sweater is pushed up as Duncan’s hands wander. His fingers are slightly rough against where Will’s skin has grown sensitive. Will gasps and pants for air, tipping his neck back to let Duncan trail his lips down his neck. The harsh drag of Duncan’s stubble against his throat and the touch of his hand against his lower back and around his ribcage has Will shivering and his whimper wavering.  
  
Following the touch of Duncan’s hands, Will’s shirt bunches above his belly and Duncan’s thumb brushes against skin that Will knows feels different to the touch from everything around it. Duncan’s hand stills and instead of another press of his lips, Will feels Duncan pull back so that he can look downward.  
  
“My smile,” Will remarks, not smiling at all.  
  
Duncan’s fingers trace from one end to the other. It seems to stretch farther and longer every day. As his belly grows, so does his scar. These are two changes to his body that Hannibal has made and they seem hell bent on reminding him of their creator. But the way the scar extends from Duncan’s palm and curves around to meet the tip of his middle finger makes it seem like it amounts to barely more than a handful.  
  
“Was this him?” Duncan asks.  
  
“That was him,” Will sighs. He reluctantly releases Duncan’s sweater from the grip of one his fists. He reaches up to push back his hair and tap a finger against the line of scar tissue on his forehead. “And this. The one on my shoulder is sort of his by proxy. That might also be the case for this one on my cheek too depending on how you look at it.”  
  
Will’s forehead wrinkles and his jaw tenses as Duncan pulls further away. His insides seem to flinch and pull inward when he thinks Hannibal may still have his influence on Will’s life and who’s in it. _Fostering codependency._ Duncan takes a step back and Will is about to duck his head when he notices how Duncan’s fingers grab at his own sweater. He watches Duncan yank his sweater over his head and, _in particular_ , watches as Duncan lays bare more and more of the scars that decorate his upper half.  
  
Will sees a constellation of them on the side of his ribs. There’s another along the top of his shoulder. Will might also see a line down the center of his chest, but it’s hard to tell from the hair there. He steps forward to feel for that scar with his fingers. It’s not nearly as raised as Will’s are but he can still feel the slightest change under his fingertips.  
  
“We’re both covered in scars,” Will murmurs.  
  
Duncan hums and brings his hand back again. This time he brushes his thumb over where Will knows there’s a vaguely circle-shaped scar on his cheek from when he was pushed off a train. He leans into the touch just like he leans into Duncan’s hand when it returns to press at his back. Will shivers as more and more of his sweater is peeled away and the freezing air creeps in. While Will’s sweater drops to the floor on top of Duncan’s, Will’s hand falls to his belly. Like habit, he feels along the newfound weight and curve of it. Every time he touches the growing, stretching skin, he’s not sure if it’s different from the last time, but somehow it always manages to seem that way.   
  
“Does it bother you?” Will asks, a hesitant whisper. “The baby.”  
  
Duncan places his hand over Will’s to still the uneasy touches of his fingers. “No.”  
  
“It must make things more complicated,” Will sighs as he tips his head back and closes his eyes. “It makes me feel _complicated_.”  
  
Duncan wraps his arms around Will’s waist. Will can feel the bulge of his biceps as Duncan curls him into his arms and curls around him. Will can’t question the strength held in Duncan’s body or the sincerity held in the rumble when Duncan whispers in his ear, “Try not to be scared.”  
  
“I’m not scared,” Will says as another shiver shakes through him. The cold wasn’t the only culprit that time. “I don’t know what I am, but not that. Not right now anyway.”  
  
Will brings his hands to Duncan’s belt and still hears the clink of it as his fingers undo the button and zipper. His hands are greedy as he feels every new bit of skin revealed to him. He studies Duncan with his touch, unsure where he might find more scars, and Duncan lets him.  
  
The wind howls outside as Duncan bends him over the couch. Will grips the back cushions and spreads his legs. His knees wobble ever so slightly as Duncan’s fingers soak themselves in the slick wet between his legs. The stroke of his fingers is rather perfunctory, clearly not considered part of the main event and, as soon as Duncan is satisfied, he pulls them out again.  
  
The thrust of Duncan’s cock has Will groaning out long and desperate. The press of Duncan’s hips against his ass and the way his cock fills him has Will clenching his jaw and curling his toes. But as the slam of Duncan’s hips jostles him, the clench of his jaw can’t hope to entirely hold in his moans and only makes his breath coming out in damning, stuttered pants. He feels so out of control. His breath and his voice disobey him and his limbs don’t have enough strength or coordination to allow him the chance to touch himself. Every sensation he feels is Duncan’s creation and he can do nothing but _feel it_. He whines with how his clit throbs. The ache to touch only makes the feeling of being filled _over and over_ want that much _more_.  
  
The next slap of Duncan’s hips against his ass has Will’s gasp seeming like crying out. Duncan stills his hips and lays himself above and against Will, pressing down with his weight just enough that Will knows he’s there.   
  
“Too rough?” Duncan rasps, barely more than a grunt, in Will’s ear.  
  
_“No,”_ Will gasps as he shivers with how Duncan’s voice travels his spine like ice water. _“More.”_  
  
Duncan wraps his arm across Will’s chest and guides them both upright. Will sighs with how the movement shifts Duncan’s cock in a way that hits _just right_.  
  
“Come with me to the window,” Duncan whispers in his ear and Will can only nod clumsily in response.  
  
He swallows down his whine when Duncan pulls out and pulls away. His muscles already ache and they twinge slightly as he walks. The glass is cool to the touch when he presses his hands against the window panes. His breath casts a fog when it rushes out as Duncan pushes in and Will moans with the new angle.  
  
“You’re like this storm aren’t you?” Duncan murmurs. “Beautiful. Terrible.”  
  
Will breathes out another cloud of fog against the glass but he imagines if it weren’t clouded, he might see a reflection of Duncan there. The harsh cold at his front and the warmth of Duncan’s body at his back has him convinced that they are two sides of the same coin. At least Duncan has a harshness Will can welcome and _trust_.  
  
“We both are,” Will whispers back, barely louder than the howling gales outside. “Aren’t we?”  
  
Will only has a moment to take note of how the chest at his back shakes with a laugh. It’s brief and quick as Duncan’s hips resume something almost _punishing._ The glass creaks and shifts under Will’s fingers until Duncan wraps his hand around his wrist to tug down and away. He’s guided to reach and touch at his clit and his teeth snap together and grit as the cold is a shock where he’s most sensitive. His fingertips may be slightly numbed by the cold but his clit might only burn hotter with the touch.  
  
As Will touches and strokes to pleasured distraction, Duncan drags his hand up, trailing his fingers along the curve of stretched skin. His fingers cradle the swell of Will’s belly as if he found exactly what he meant to.  
  
“Creating life might be the most beautiful and terrible thing,” Duncan observes. “But you might make it only seem beautiful.”  
  
A tear slips from Will’s eye as his orgasm crashes over him. Duncan fucks him through it and his hole clenches and squeezes to spur him on. Will pulls back on his hand when the touch against his oversensitive clit becomes too much. Instead, he lets his hand join where Duncan’s is still spread against his belly. The last of Duncan’s thrusts might be just as harsh and brutal as his others, but that touch to Will’s belly is as gentle as when he’d held his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Bee for beta-reading for me! Also, Bee and I started _another_ Kaisergram fic. It's a high school AU with genderfluid Will and punk Duncan having a baby together. So, if that's something that would interest you check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054085/chapters/71314332).


	4. Chapter 4

Nightmares. Will is familiar with those. There were stags wandering half-lit hallways and deserted, winding backroads. There was the feeling of dissolving into nothing. There were ghosts that haunted him night and day. He has never been good at leaving things behind and moving on.   
  
While Will knows his own nightmares very well, he’s never laid beside anyone as _they_ had one. He’s never had someone to lie next to him either. He’s not sure what’s the _best practice_ to do. He was woken by the agitated shift of Duncan’s body and he opened his eyes to see the sweat building at Duncan’s hairline. Will waits as he observes and he tries to determine if it’s better to wake Duncan up or better not to.  
  
Duncan’s breaths are harsher and more rushed than Will might have ever said Duncan was capable of. He’s sure Duncan could sprint and fend off as many adversaries as he needed to. But these things would be still done with a conscientiousness that has sunken deeper than his actual _consciousness_ and interwoven itself into every flex of his muscles. There would be no _rush_ , simply well-practiced movements happening at a faster speed.   
  
But now those muscles flinch and tremble.   
  
Will lifts his hand and reaches outwards even though he still hasn’t fully decided whether it’s a good idea to try to touch. His touch could get manifested into any manner of horrible things in Duncan’s nightmares. Will knows this from experience: Winston’s nose had once become that of a haunting stag. There is a memory of the stag’s huff of breath ghosting across the back of Will’s hand, which has him dropping his hand to the mattress and gripping at the sheet.   
  
He decides not to interfere, but that doesn’t mean abandoning Duncan altogether. Will remembers sleeping in Abigail’s hospital room. The click of Alana’s heels had echoed like hooves. The bright lights shone down on him even behind closed eyes. But he’d woken to Alana reading aloud and that had been _nice_. Will doesn’t have any books within arm’s reach – particularly since turning over would no doubt cause some amount of jostling – but at the time he hadn’t given a thought to what Alana was reading. He couldn’t remember what the book had been if he tried. What mattered was her soothing voice and the smile on her face when she looked at him.   
  
Will watches the sunlight grow stronger as it peaks under the curtains. It’s still fairly early morning and, although Will has plans for the day, he’s not in a hurry. He can afford to wait. Even if he wanted to go back to sleep, he’s not sure he could. Thankfully, the baby hasn’t quite woken up yet. It’s still early enough in the day for that to seem strange to _think._   
  
Will watches each twitch of Duncan’s mustache and wrinkle of his brow until Duncan suddenly wakes with a _jolt_. Duncan’s hand scrambles across the covers and under the pillow. He won’t find whatever it is that he’s looking for – neither weapons, nor clothes for that matter. They’d collapsed in bed together with muscles that were sore and exhausted without a scrap of clothes between them and with hands that only held each other.   
  
“Good morning,” Will says softly and Duncan’s hand stills in his searching.  
  
Duncan’s fingers flex outward once before dragging across his eyes and smoothing down either side of his mustache. Will holds his own fingers out for Duncan to see before drawing the pointer finger down along the scar that crosses Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan allows his shoulders to roll back as he rests his back flat against the mattress. The way Duncan itches his thumb against the bridge of his nose gives the vision of a cigarette poised between two of his fingers.   
  
“What time is it?” Duncan asks.  
  
“Don’t know,” Will answers. He’d moved the clock somewhere he couldn’t _stare_ at it. He hardly ever has to set the alarm anyhow. There’s little need to be an early riser anymore. “The dogs haven’t tried to bother us so it can’t be too late.”  
  
“Rusty,” Duncan rasps as he looks towards the open bedroom door.   
  
Will hums. His hand skims along Duncan’s chest and the hair to be found there. He wrestles with some reluctance as he says, “We can check on them if you want.”  
  
When Duncan keeps from saying something right away, Will wonders if they feel the same fear. It’s the worry that once the moment is lost, it may never be found or had again. It’s the sense that contentment is fleeting and happiness is finite. It burns at the back of Will’s throat and has him swallowing after he’s licked his tongue across his dry lips. Then he’s levering himself up in bed.   
  
Duncan takes a second to react but he’s much quicker without the shape and weight of a growing baby to work around. Will is glad Duncan doesn’t try to _heave_ him upright when he notices how Will has to go a little slower. He just touches his hand to Will’s shoulder not unlike what Will had done. Will does groans when he stands and he does rub one hand across his belly as he settles his feet against the floor, but at least he’d retained _some_ of his dignity.  
  
When Duncan walks back out towards the living room, he’s still stark naked but that _is_ where they’d left their clothes. Will has more to choose from and, on his way out of the bathroom, he grabs himself some clothes for the day. The sweater’s fit is a little snugger than the last time he wore it and he sighs with the thought that he’d outgrown it already even though he’d _tried_ to be generous with the size.   
  
The baby is surely awake now. He chuckles as he imagines the kicks he feels to be a demand for breakfast. Will scratches his fingers lightly against the knit stretched tight across his belly as he joins Duncan and the dogs. He finds Duncan dressed and bent over to scratch behind Rusty’s ears. The dog makes more little grunting noises as Will’s dogs yip and pace impatiently. As soon as they notice him, they quickly shift from sniffing at Duncan to begging Will instead.   
  
“Alright!” Will announces as he laughs when Buster stands up on his back legs to beg _even more_. “Yes, yes, I know,” he teases with a smile, corralling his pack towards the front door.   
  
While he pulls on a coat and forces his feet into his boots, Rusty and Duncan have joined the gathering at the door. Duncan puts on his shoes much more easily and quickly. When Duncan kneels to tie them, Will considers for a moment bracing himself against his shoulder. Instead, he teeters when he works in the heel of his foot and teeters even more as Duncan opens the front door and their dogs rush out.   
  
Will laughs and hopes it sounds more good-natured than _embarrassed_. Either way, it might get drowned out a little by the sound of his dogs yipping and barking in excitement at being outside. He and Duncan walk out much more slowly and stay on the porch. Will watches the dogs make their way through the snow and, in particular, watch how the smaller ones struggle, jumping like clumsy bunnies. Will worries for a moment that he hadn’t thought to put Rusty on a leash, but then he sees how the little bulldog seems entirely _unamused_ by the snow.   
  
“Clearing that snow is going to take a lot of work,” Will says with a sigh. “I’ve been dreading that part.”   
  
There must be at least eight inches of it and Will’s back aches just thinking about it. He has a snowblower for times like this, but he still has to withhold a grimace with the knowledge of how his knees and feet will ache. He rolls his neck and shifts his hips to reflexively ease the tension he anticipates.  
  
“Takes some of the awe and wonder out of snow. Makes me miss being a kid,” Will muses as the snow starts to lose its sparkle and glimmer and starts to seem more like the piles of gray slush left lingering by the road. “I might not even bother if I didn’t have an appointment to get to.”  
  
Duncan hums. “I can do it.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Will says with a chuckle as Winston walks up to Rusty and gives him an encouraging sniff. Will looks over at Duncan, who didn’t bother to put on his coat, but isn’t shivering anyhow. Will’s fingers are cold and nearly prickle in the frigid air, but press kindly against the knit of Duncan’s sweater. He smiles softly as he reassures, “I’m just complaining.”   
  
“I want to do it,” Duncan states, turning his head and dipping his chin with a look on his face that leaves no argument.   
  
Well, _almost_.  
  
“Duncan,” Will starts.   
  
“You’re carrying a child, Will,” Duncan reminds him plainly. The muscle in his arm shifts under Will’s fingers as he moves to press his palm against the shape of Will’s belly over his coat. His hand shifts to something more at ease, but the expression on his face stays certain and solid. “Please don’t argue.”   
  
“Alright,” Will says when he finds there really may be no argument. He could insist, but he’s not sure what would be the point. “I guess.”   
  
Will wars with his discomfort when he waits. After they’ve had breakfast, he listens to the roar of the snowblower outside and sits silently on his couch. It seems _not right_. He’s not used to just sitting by and waiting. There had never been anyone to wait for. When it snowed in Virginia, he was the only one who could or _would_ shovel. There was little snow when Will was growing up, but if there was any, then he’d be the one dealing with it.   
  
When simply waiting gets to be too much, Will gives himself something to do. He pulls another round of hot chocolate from the cabinet and prepares it. While the microwave whirs, he watches some of the dogs watch the door with a mix of curiosity and confusion. He might know how they feel.   
  
He brings two mugs outside with him and returns to looking out on the porch. The outlook is much the same as it has been since he moved in but seems much _different_ from before. Instead of dogs milling around, there’s only Duncan and he’s not nearly so nonchalant as before. Will can see his forehead glisten with sweat like the snow and his cheeks and nose are pink from the effort and the cold.   
  
The roar of noise quiets as Duncan looks up from his work. What’s left of the rumble is quickly silenced when his eyes lock on Will.   
  
“I brought you something to drink,” Will calls out. There’s no longer noise to compete with, but still a fair bit of distance.   
  
Duncan nods and trudges through the snow and up the stairs to come back to stand next to him and sip at the mug Will provides. Duncan tilts his head and turns his eyes to look over the stretch of land in front of them as if silently guiding Will to do the same. With Duncan’s quiet guidance, Will sees how the stairs aren’t nearly so precarious, there are pathways for humans and dogs alike, and the driveway is nearly _drive-able_.  
  
“It looks great, _amazing_ ,” Will admires. He looks back at Duncan and tips his lips towards a smile. “As magical as a supernatural woodpile.”  
  
The pink on Duncan’s cheek might deepen with a blush or another gust of cold air. As Duncan tries to hide it behind the tip of his mug as he takes another sip, Will sees that only Duncan’s car is cleared. Duncan seems hardly capable of such an oversight. Will hums and Duncan says nothing. Will recalls his own words from the night before: _there’s no need to go home unless you’re trying to avoid me_. There’s no need to make a point of it unless Will actually _doesn’t want_ him to come. So he says nothing about it at all.   
  
It seems like that might become the theme of the day. Where Hannibal made sure Will learned to be careful with his words, Duncan might be teaching Will when words simply aren’t needed. When Duncan’s engine rumbles to an abrupt silence in the doctor’s office parking lot and his seat belt clicks as he unlatches it, it seems that telling Duncan he doesn’t have to come in would simply be unnecessary rejection. And while it might be strange to consider how an almost-stranger might invite himself to such an appointment, Will can only say he’s glad for the company.   
  
They take a seat together in the waiting room. Will eases himself into the chair like he has before, but he hasn’t done it so many times that it comes easily. He looks towards his knees instead of at the posters that line the walls. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Duncan leaning forward to pick one each from the collection of pamphlets arranged in a spread on the table in front of them. Duncan pulls his glasses from his pocket and puts them on as he flips through his options: _How your Fetus Grows_ , _Back Pain During Pregnancy,_ _Chestfeeding_.   
  
Will has to try not to laugh as Duncan settles on a particular pamphlet and flips open to the first page. Duncan, of course, acts as if he doesn’t notice. His eyes scan the page with studious interest while he ignores how it makes Will smile and shake his head. Duncan simply continues on reading this pamphlet titled _Sex and the Pregnant Couple_.  
  
“A bit like closing the barn door _after_ the horse has bolted,” Will teases in a whisper.   
  
“I’m open to new information,” Duncan states, voice low and deep. “Aren’t you?”  
  
Will means to scan the page with disinterest, but his eyes manage to catch the words _multiple orgasm_ s and he hums. He opens his mouth to say—  
  
 _“Will!”  
_  
By the door, there’s the same nurse as always. Will has to drive nearly an hour to get to this office and even then it’s not very big. _Big towns_ and _small towns_ have become relative things. There’s _one_ doctor here and _one_ nurse, sometimes a receptionist, but at least the office exists at all.   
  
The nurse smiles at him from the doorway like she always does. She has her blonde hair up in a ponytail and her scrubs are baby blue. She makes the same small talk she always does — _it sure is cold out there isn’t it?_ — and he answers the same way as usual — _sure is_. She asks him the same questions about how he’s doing and how he’s feeling and not _too_ much has changed there. He’s bigger so he aches a bit more. He’s bigger because the baby is bigger and the baby is becoming bigger while they’re also growing _stronger_. He can feel it in how the kicks make themselves known more and more.  
  
“I see Dad came with us today,” the nurse – _Everleigh Young_ – says in a teasing sort of way as she takes Will’s blood pressure. Her light pink lip gloss makes him think that at any moment she might blow a bubble made from pretty, pink bubblegum. _  
_  
Will looks at Duncan and hesitates. He shouldn’t have to question what he _should_ do here. Considering Duncan as another father would be _madness_ perhaps on par with how much madness was involved with believing _himself_ to be a father to Abigail. And yet still, it’s another instance where voicing some sort of correction would seem needlessly _cruel_.   
  
“I think _Dad_ describes Will best,” Duncan says as he sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He’s tucked the pamphlets away in his pocket but his glasses still sit on his nose.   
  
“Of course,” she agrees and easily moves on to gesturing for Will to lie back.   
  
Will looks away from Duncan as he goes through the motions of lifting up the bottom hem of his shirt. Though it’s hardly as if Duncan hasn’t seen Will’s belly – or seen Will naked, for that matter – he still finds himself keenly aware of Duncan’s attention as his belly is exposed to open air that smells like disinfectant. It’s strange to be seen this way. So far his worlds have seemed so separated. Only this little doctor’s office an hour away from the middle of nowhere had really _seen_ him quite this way. Tucked away in an exam room in this office, he might seem like a different person: a first-time dad, a first pregnancy with all of its associated jitters. Having Duncan here reminds him that he’s not.   
  
Will has done his best to make sure Hannibal doesn’t even know there’s a _need_ for this kind of appointment. Hannibal hasn’t sat in a waiting room with him or sat by while his belly is measured from top to bottom. He hasn’t seen the fuzzy blur of their baby on a screen. Until now, there’s been no one to stand by Will’s side to study that strange, beautiful little image and marvel at how something so simple could seem so much like a _wonder._   
  
But now, Duncan has risen from his seat and stands over Will. Seems the glasses were still needed after all as he looks over what finer details there are to be found on the screen. Duncan’s eyes seem to hold genuine interest and it feels so _nice_ that Will can only seem to question it. Should he build up walls and set boundaries? Should he draw a line in the sand? Has he forgotten what codependency feels like? Does he want things he should have? Should he have things because he wants them?  
  
Will tries to keep _those_ thoughts at bay but they still creep in from time to time throughout the rest of the appointment. He still finds himself distracted by so many questions that those questions can’t seem to even make their minds up about what to ask. One builds on the next and then the next. By the time he’s sitting in Duncan’s truck with a set of printed pictures and another appointment card, he’s forgotten half of the questions and he doesn’t remember if they were the important ones.   
  
Duncan drives them to a diner. It’s not their usual diner, but they are all just about the same. They take their seats in a booth and at either side of the table. Will fishes the pictures back out of his pocket as soon as the waitress steps away. He looks at the little outline of a baby in black, gray, and white and he might feel woozy. As a headache blooms, he wishes he could drink some coffee or pop a couple of aspirin like back in the old days – _the old days when he was unstable_.   
  
“Have you ever been a father before?” Will asks and realizes once the words are already past his lips that those are from the _old days_ too.   
  
“No,” Duncan says and thankfully that’s not the same answer as Will had gotten last time he asked. Duncan doesn’t provide any stories of a long-lost sister buried in a castle’s graveyard. He simply folds his hands in front of him on the table as he asks, “Have you?”  
  
“Not really,” Will answers and he rubs at his forehead as he sighs.   
  
“Not really,” Duncan repeats, _question implied_.   
  
“I thought of myself as someone’s father once,” Will says by way of explanation, closing his eyes against memories of Abigail calling him _Dad_ in his dreams. “But I wasn’t.”  
  
Duncan hums. “There’s no mistaking that now.”  
  
“No there isn’t,” Will agrees with the hesitant quiet of a whisper.   
  
He rubs a hand across his belly and his heart clenches with how _good_ it feels. The baby is heavy in his lap and kicks impatiently as if in protest of Will’s hunger. The certainty of what’s growing under his hand and under his skin, using his blood and breath, and forever something that came from him, it almost has tears welling at his eyes. There’s no question and no one will take this from him.   
  
“He took her away from me,” Will confesses.  
  
Duncan doesn’t ask for further details he doesn’t need. He simply observes what’s at the heart of it: “He broke your trust.”  
  
 _“Yeah,”_ Will says and the word seems to carry with it a novel’s worth of significance and meaning. It holds the story of all the pain and the grief that might normally only seem possible to feel once, but got felt _twice_. It was worse the second time.  
  
“I apologize for overstepping,” Duncan says.   
  
Will blinks at him. Will’s brow was already furrowed with confusion, but it wrinkles further as Duncan’s mustache frames his frown and underlies the downturn of his eyes. “It’s not that,” Will says, but his tone wobbles at the end as he second-guesses. Questions swarm again in his head and even more add themselves to the frenzy. “Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I told you this would be _complicated_.”  
  
Duncan’s hand flexes ever so slightly, but it’s enough for Will to know that he wants to reach out. “Keep going,” he simply says instead. “Don’t be scared.”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking that you would take the baby from me. But maybe I should have been?” Will confesses as he closes his eyes and lowers his head. “I don’t even know what the right thing to worry about is. I’m too busy wondering whether I even _deserve_ to have anything easy.”  
  
“Maybe it’s not about what _you_ deserve,” Duncan offers and Will knows he doesn’t mean himself.  
  
“What about what I want?” Will murmurs as he rubs his hand across his belly again and imagines the fragile, unbroken, undamaged, little creature growing in there. He keeps his eyes closed and his voice quiet as if that would help him to hide from himself – his misdeeds, his cruelties, his darkness and shadows. “Should I be allowed to have that?”  
  
“Don’t punish your child in your determination to punish yourself.”  
  
When Will opens his eyes and looks at Duncan this time, he imagines what would happen if he let Duncan be as close as he wanted. Will would never let _anything_ happen to this child and he would survive anything that might happen to him. Duncan doesn’t seem to bother with complex mind-tricks – Will knows very well what _that_ looks like – and so allowing Duncan to show care might actually help Will to be sure.   
  
Will places a hand on his heart as it might seem to pound out of his chest. He can feel the pieces that were such a scattered mess coming together. As one piece interlocks with another and his fingers interlock with Duncan’s, he might start to think that there could be no harm to this want of his after all.


End file.
